


Grenade

by rubygirl29



Series: Love, Loss, Hope, Repeat [2]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-04
Updated: 2013-07-04
Packaged: 2017-12-17 16:27:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/869597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubygirl29/pseuds/rubygirl29
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint Barton's life seems to run in a cycle of love, loss, hope, and repeat. It starts the day he is born. In this part, Clint becomes a S.H.I.E.L.D. Agent, learns something about Jasper Sitwell, and realizes he's on the verge of being hopeless over Phil Coulson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grenade

**Author's Note:**

> A continuation of the AU set up in Love, Loss, Hope, Repeat. The title is a song by Bruno Mars, but the version on my playlist features Michelle Chamuel from THE VOICE.
> 
> This backstory on how Clint Barton becomes Hawkeye has its roots in canon and my own head canon. Some of Clint's backstory -- the cane fields, the archery range and the people he meets are loosely based on truth, or truth as I was told. I know, that's vaguely confusing, but there it is.

_I'd catch a grenade for you,_  
Throw my hand on a blade for you,  
Jump in front of a train for you,  
I'd give up my life for you .. 

_(Bruno Mars. Grenade)_

__

**Probation**

Clint is discharged from medical two days later, with instructions for therapy and pain medications. He is sitting on the edge of the bed, feeling off-kilter and a little blurry around the edges. He hasn't felt this uncertain since that long drive to Florida. At least then he'd had Barney, for what that had been worth. The memory was bitter as gall.

He has crutches, but he can't wield them and carry his meager belongings. His jeans have been slit up the leg to allow for the bandages and brace on his knee. His T-shirt has been washed, his boots have been cleaned. He doesn't know what has happened to his bow. Confiscated, no doubt and making the rounds of the agents who probably are laughing themselves silly. He's heard all the jokes about Robin Hood. 

He realizes he doesn't know where to go. 

The curtain around his bed is swept aside and Agent Coulson is standing there. "Ready?" he asks. 

"For what?" Clint asks, almost hesitant to find out his fate.

"You've been assigned rooms here at headquarters. Unfortunately, there is a wait for you to move in."

"Gee, who knew this place was in such demand?" Clint can't keep the acid out of his voice.

"Barton, we're like a long-term stay hotel. Right now, we happen to have quite a few field agents on station. You'll have a place tomorrow. Meanwhile, tonight you'll stay at my place."

"Lucky you."

Coulson's mouth twitches. "I'll manage." He takes up the plastic bag that is labelled with Clint's name. Clint has more experience with crutches than he likes to admit, but it makes it less embarrassing to limp along beside Coulson as they make their way through the S.H.I.E.LD. complex. 

Clint is conscious of two things; first, the curious looks he's getting from the men and women they pass in the corridors, and second, the obvious respect they show toward Coulson - some of it bordering on trepidation. Coulson greets them all equally, until a bald man with thick-framed glasses stops in front of them. His suit and tie are a knockoff of Coulson's. Clint suppresses an urge to roll his eyes like an unimpressed teenager.

"Agent Sitwell, this is Clint Barton. Barton, Agent Jasper Sitwell. He will be your training officer while you're on probation." 

Clint balances precariously on his crutches and holds out a hand to Sitwell -- who doesn't return the gesture. _Okay_ , Clint thinks. Formal bastard. He can play nice. The army taught him that. "Pleased to meet you, Agent Sitwell." The words sound ridiculous and stilted, but then, Sitwell seems kind of stilted. 

Sitwell is frowning at Coulson. "Sir, you promised I was off babysitting duty."

"Don't whine, Jasper. I think you'll find Barton to be an interesting assignment. When he can stand without crutches, take him to the range."

"What am I suppled to do with him until then?"

"Feed him, give him the S.H.I.E.L.D. field manual. You'll think of something." 

Jasper gives a short laugh and finally holds out his hand to Clint. "Barton." 

Clint nods. "Sir."

"Just call me Sitwell." He gives Clint a brief hard handshake. "Goodnight, sir." He says to Coulson. "See you in the morning, Barton."

They reach the elevator to the garage. Clint leans against the wall while they wait for the car to arrive. He's feeling kind of washed out; he hopes he looks casual, but Coulson's eyes are too sharp. "I'll bring the car. Wait here," he cautions, as if Clint were in any shape to take off on him. 

Clint allows himself a smile. "'Fraid I'll make a run for it with these crutches?"

"I wouldn't make the mistake of underestimating you." 

Well, that makes Clint wish he had the ambition and strength to try. "Sorry, sir. I hate to disappoint, but that ain't gonna happen today."

Coulson's eyes warm. "I'll be back." The doors open and Clint follows Coulson out and watches his back. The suit he wears is obviously tailored to fit his trim form. The break of the jacket over his hips is almost hypnotic as he walks. Clint is intrigued. 

He's even more intrigued when he hears the purr of a powerful motor. A sleek red vintage 'Vette that makes Clint's mouth water rounds the corner and stops in front of him. It's the sexiest damn car he's ever seen, and it belongs to a guy who looks like an accountant. There's a story there, one that Clint thinks is so far away from his own that it will sound like a fairy tale. 

"Sweet ride," Clint says as he maneuvers his way into the passenger seat. 

"I call her Lola." Coulson's ears are tipped with pink, as if he's embarrassed to have revealed that human touch to Clint.

"I had a bow I named 'Sweetness,' Clint says. "I brought her in an Army/Navy store. She had the sweetest recurve, always seemed to find the bullseye."

"You left her behind?" Coulson asks. "We can get her back for you."

"She burned up in the fire." The regret that tinges his voice is palpable.

"Sorry," Phil says. He sounds like he's lost things, too. Either that, or he's a fine actor. He drives confidently, finding his way through the rough New York traffic until he pulls into the driveway of a four-story brownstone on a quiet street. 

It looks too rich, too perfect to Clint. He feels a vague flutter in his stomach. "You don't have to, you know, put me up. I'll be fine at --" He doesn't know of any place in New York. He can't tell Phil about the place Tasha found for him. "Any cheap hotel."

Coulson sighs. "There are no cheap hotels in Manhattan. You're not intruding. What will it hurt for a few hours?"

Clint doesn't have an answer to that. "You don't know me. I could be an ax murderer or something."

"I know you won't kill me in my sleep. You aren't afraid to look a mark in the eyes and let him know you intend to kill him." 

It's so dead-on that Clint feels slightly nauseous. He blames it on the medications."You don't know me," he repeats, but it lacks any real conviction behind the words. "But, I probably won't kill you."

Coulson't lips give that exasperating twist of amusement. "You could try, but you'd fail."

"Yeah? You'd kill me with a paperclip or something?"

"Paperclips make excellent weapons," Coulson says mildly, and Clint gets the idea that he's not kidding. He recalls the awe and trepidation in the younger agents' faces. Behind every myth there is truth, and Clint think that Coulson is the truth. 

"You'll have to show me that, sir."

"Standard Operating Procedure. Come on, this is home for tonight, Barton."

"Yes, sir." It takes some work, but he makes it out of Lola's bucket seats. He wavers slightly, and Coulson's hand is around his elbow, holding him steady. There is steel underneath that pin-striped suit and more muscle than a government pencil pusher has any right to, that's for sure. 

Coulson's home is a surprise. It's not cold or impersonal. The walls are a soft sage green. The furniture is a mix of contemporary and classic with a good measure of masculine comfort in the leather recliner and long, well-worn couch that looks deep and soft, like if you sank into it you'd want to stay. 

"Come in," Phil stands aside so Clint can enter. "I'll put your bag in the spare bedroom." Clint can't imagine what could be in the bag. It's not like he had much in the way of possessions with him when he was captured. 

He stands in the living room, taking in the peace and order. "Nice place."

Coulson's eyes do that crinkle thing. "It's home." Clint follows Coulson down the hall. "Guest room on the left, bath across the hall. Master bedroom and bath are next door. Towels are in the cupboard in the bathroom."

Clint looks longingly at the shower. He smells like hospital and sweat and his hair feels like straw. "Um, I'd like to clean up?" 

"Sure, just be careful of that leg."

Clint doesn't know if he should laugh or cry. "Thanks, I know what to do." Coulson can't possible _care_ that much about him. Nobody ever has; maybe his mother, maybe his captain had cared ... Clint pushes that thought away, because if he dwells on it, he will cry. 

Coulson leaves the duffel on the bed. "I'll order some food. Any favorites?" 

"I like Vietnamese, but I don't know if my stomach does right now."

"How about some pho and spring rolls?"

Clint nods. "Sounds about right." He opens the plastic bag. Inside he finds a sweat pants, a T-shirt with a small white S.H.I.E.L.D. insignia on the sleeve, boxers, and socks. S.H.I.E.L.D. is nothing if not efficient. The shower runs wonderfully hot and hard, stinging on his skin. The steam draws the aches from his muscles. The shampoo smells of basil and mint, of Coulson, which he should find skeevy, but doesn't. When the water starts to cool, he finishes up, dries off and dresses in the sweats. He doesn't bother with socks and shoes. Coulson's floors looked spotless.

He uses a crutch more like a cane and limps into the living room. He hears the clank of china and cutlery from the kitchen. Coulson has changed his suit for old, soft jeans and a worn Army Ranger T-shirt. The thin fabric shows off strong arm muscles, and a trim, toned body. The jeans fit perfectly. He's ladling out steaming bowls of noodles and broth. It smells wonderful. Clint eases into a chair at the small bistro set and watches Coulson's spare, economic movements in the small kitchen space. 

Coulson sets a bowl of Pho in front of him along with a plate of spring rolls and a dipping sauce. There are small cups of condiments -- slivered carrots, cilantro, tiny exquisitely hot bird chilies, Thai basil. Clint regrets the bird chilies since he worships heat, but settles for a few sprinkled in his broth to spice it up. The spring rolls are light and crisp, the dipping sauce is hot and sweet and salty. Clint finally sighs and sits back. Food hasn't tasted this good since that long-ago diner in Georgia. 

Phil is looking at him like the cat who swallowed the canary; pleased that Clint has eaten and that he has lured the hawk into his lair. Clint isn't so easily baited. He looks back at Coulson. "You know good Vietnamese," he says. 

"I've spent some time in country -- not during the war, but when I first joined S.H.I.E.L.D. They seemed to think that sending me to every third world nation and backwater would make me rethink my decision."

"Didn't work, huh?"

"Not so much." Coulson grins. "I developed a taste for local cuisine, a nose for danger, and the love of beating the bad guys." 

"I can't say I developed a taste for goat," Clint admits. "Or rice with gravel in it. Though the peanut stew in the Congo wasn't bad."

Coulson seems relaxed, but there's a watchful edge to his stillness, like Clint's willingness to talk is a ruse to lull him into false security. Clint sighs and sets his napkin down. "Easy, Coulson. I'm not going to bolt. Not tonight. I'm going to haul my ass off to bed. Thanks for dinner."

"Take your medication."

"Yeah." He stands up, waiting for his knee to accept the change in position and get used to bearing some weight. "Goodnight, sir." He doesn't wait to see Coulson's expression. 

He brushes his teeth, turns off the lights in his room and strips, curling naked into the fine sheets and soft blankets. _Jesus,_ he thinks. _Do people live like this_? He's never slept in such luxury. He turns his cheek into the cool pillow and falls asleep. 

_He's riding in a convoy. Sparks, their radio guy is scrolling through photos on his cell phone. Boomer, the team demolition expert, is lying in the bed of the truck, one arm thrown over his eyes as he tries to catch some Zs. Clint is seated on the bump of the rear tire next to him, examining one of his rifle sights for scratches and imperfections that could impact his next shot. Cap is in the cab with Danny G. at the wheel. The road had been swept for mines and there were no Taliban in the hills according to the eyes up high. It's the most relaxed Clint has been in days._

_He's the first one to hear the eerie whistle, the first to see the trail of smoke, the first to scream out, "RPG! RPG!" The explosive impacts ten feet behind the truck, showering them with dust and debris and deafening Clint. The second sends Clint flying from the bed of the truck to land with a sickening crunch of bone breaking in his leg. The explosion throws him back hard. His head hits a boulder. When he comes back to consciousness, the first thing he sees is the wreckage of the burning truck. He sees Sparky and Boomer dead. There is a body burning in the cab ... Danny G. If he were alive, he'd be screaming._

_"Cap?" Clint cries out weakly. He raises himself up, turns and sees Cap some distance away from the cab, a trail of black blood soaking the dirt and marking his progress. He's unmoving now, but his hands twitch sporadically. Clint starts crawling, crying, his leg dragging behind him. The pain is unrelenting. He stops long enough to puke. The sun is merciless on his back. His head is throbbing, his vision is blurred, sounds are muffled and disorienting; but he keeps going, keeps trying to reach his Captain. At some point, he passes out. When he looks up, Cap is still. Clint keeps going until he reaches his commander. He rolls him over, and wishes he never had. The man's guts are shredded. His ribcage is splintered, his heart is pulsing blood weakly from a hole in his chest. His face is terrible. A single breath bubbles from his throat, bloody foam on his lips. He looks at Clint. "Do it, Barton," he whispers. "Please."_

_"No! Don't die, don't you fucking die on me, Cap!" It's too late, too hopelessly late. There is blood on his hands, pain everywhere, and the eyes of a dying man begging him for mercy._

_Clint pulls out his knife. In his dream, he's a murderer. In his dream, he crawls away helplessly mewling with pain and grief. In reality, he doesn't remember what he did. He hopes he held his captain, cradling him to his death, but he'll never know._

"Barton! Clint! Wake up. It's okay ... you're safe. Safe. It's okay. You're not alone. Got that? You're safe ... " He repeats it endlessly, until the words find their way into Clint's panicked brain.

Reality comes back slowly, filtering in like cold air. He's not in Afghanistan. He's not crawling through dirt and blood. He has no defense against the dream. He clings to the arms around him. They are warm, strong. The voice against his hair is gentle, the fingers at the back of his neck stroke beneath his hair, soothing him and bringing him back from the brink of terror. He wishes he could stay there but the truth is he's naked and quivering in Phil Coulson's arms. He's weak and pathetic and scared. 

Sick and ashamed, he tries to pull away, but he doesn't have the strength. "Let me go," he says brokenly. "Please." He can't look at Coulson. His fingers search for the blanket, for anything to cover his nakedness. Phil moves slowly, cautiously. He drapes the blanket over Clint's shoulders and crouches down to his eye level. "I'm going to heat some water for tea, okay?"

Clint shoves fingers through his sweat-soaked hair. "Yeah. Gonna shower ... " He staggers to his feet and Coulson is there, his warm palm against Clint's ribs. 

"Slowly, Barton." He helps Clint into the bathroom and turns on the shower. "Be careful." 

Clint steps under the spray. It's the perfect temperature. He lets the water sluice away the sweat and tremors that wrack him. He finally stops shaking. When he steps out of the shower, there are clean towels on the sink and a pair of flannel sleep pants. He dries off and dresses. The pants must be Coulson's. They're a little short, a little big in the waist, but they're soft, warm and more comfortable than the stiff, new sweats. 

Coulson is pouring hot water into two cups. The tea is pale gold and smells like a meadow. "Chamomile," he explains. "It's calming. It should help you sleep."

"I don't sleep much after ... but, thanks." He spoons honey into the tea and takes a tentative sip. "It's good. Doesn't mean I'll sleep, though."

"I'm not your mother. I'm not going to make you go back to bed. I have books, I have cable, movies ... a laptop."

"I had an iPod," Clint says regretfully. "I guess it's lost."

Coulson gets up and goes into the living room, returning with a futuristic looking MP3 player and a tablet. "S.H.I.E.L.D. has testing rights with Stark Industries. Download whatever you like. It's free."

"I can't ..."

"Take it, Barton. Do me a favor. You'll get Stark off my back. He's continually pestering me about how I like it and how totally cool it is -- his words, not mine."

"Stark? As in Tony Stark?"

"The one and only."

Clint's reaction is to lash out. "The asshole makes WMDs! He probably provided the Taliban with the RPGs that blew up my team," Clint spat the words out. "I don't want his tech."

Phil sighs. "He didn't _sell_ the weapons to the Taliban, Barton. He also invented the weapons you use and the medical devices that saved your life. Stark manufactures the communications modules that warn troops of incoming bomb strikes, and weather fronts, and our own guidance systems. That's how you win a war."

"You sound like a fan," Clint says bitterly.

"Hardly. The man is an ass with an ego bigger than the state of California and a showman to put P.T. Barnum to shame. But he's also an undeniable genius, so I'm willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. Take the damn tablet and player, try it out, and save me from another round of emails with the bastard."

Clint has to smile at that. "Is that an order, sir?"

"If I said 'yes', would you argue?"

"No, sir."

"Then it's an order."

Clint takes the tablet and player like they'll shatter at his touch. "Thank you, sir."

"You're welcome, Barton." He tries to stifle a yawn. "We have a long day tomorrow. Try to sleep."

"I'm sorry I woke you."

Coulson sighs, but not with impatience or annoyance. It sounds ... regretful. "Barton, don't apologize for being human. We all have nightmares. It comes with the territory. I won't ask you about it tonight, but if you want to talk about it, I'll listen."

"Not now. Probably not ever, but thanks for offering."

"If not me, then there are psychologists at S.H.I.E.L.D," he suggests diffidently. 

"I tried that at Walter Reed for all the good it did." Clint stands up slowly and limps into the living room. He sinks down on the couch with a soft sound of relief. It is every bit as comfortable as he anticipated. "I'm good, sir. Get some rest."

"You know you can't break those," Phil turns to him and smiles. "If you do, Stark will probably want to kiss you for finding a flaw in the design."

"I won't break it. Go to bed, sir."

Coulson pads down the hall to his bedroom and Clint turns on the StarkTab, finding a podcast he wants to listen to. He settles in, plugs in his earphones and closes his eyes, letting the voices lull him to sleep. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
He wakes up at first light to the aroma of coffee brewing. To his surprise, he's slept for five hours -- the longest uninterrupted rest he's had in weeks, maybe months. It's not enough, but he feels less exhausted than he did, even with the drugs they'd given him in the hospital to help him sleep. 

He opens his eyes and sits up slowly. Coulson is in the kitchen. He looks up when he notices the top of Clint's head over the back of the sofa. "Good morning." He carries a mug of coffee over to Clint. "Black?"

"Yeah. Thanks." Clint wraps his fingers around the mug. It's white, with a black S.H.I.E.L.D. insignia on it. He's amused to see that Phil's mug has a different shield on it -- a target of red and white circles with a bulls-eye of a star on blue. Clint lifts a brow. "Nice mug. Captain America, right?" Damn if the man doesn't blush. "Fanboy much?"

"I'm a collector." 

"Yes, sir." Clint manages to keep a straight face. Actually, it's kind of sweet. He wishes he still believed in heroes. "So, I guess I'm S.H.I.E.L.D.'s man now."

"S.H.I.E.L.D. doesn't own you, Barton."

"So Siberia was an empty threat?"

"Siberia, yes. We do have a base in the Arctic, however."

Clint hates the cold. "Yes, sir."

Thirty minutes later, Coulson is dressed in one of his tailored suits, a pale blue oxford cloth shirt, rep tie and spit-shined shoes. Clint is wearing his torn jeans and S.H.I.E.L.D. T-shirt. He feels like street trash next to the impeccable vision of Coulson in full Agent glory. He retrieves his plastic bag of belongings and starts out of the apartment. 

"Barton, you forgot these --" Coulson holds out the tablet and player. "They're yours."

"Sir, I can't --"

"It's standard equipment for agents in training."

Clint thinks Coulson is making that up for some reason, but he can't argue with him. He takes the devices in his hand and carefully wraps them up in the sweatpants in his bag. He tries not to sound nervous when he asks what happens next.

"First, you'll be fingerprinted and photographed for your ID badge. Most of our locks operate on either a thumbprint or retinal scan. After that, Agent Sitwell will show you to your quarters and probably give you a stack of release forms to read and sign. You'll have a physical to establish baselines for height, weight, BMI ... Since you're down a few pounds, they'll probably pass you on to a nutritionist who will give you a recommended diet plan. By then, I anticipate, you'll be exhausted. Then lunch with your fellow probationary agents, most of whom have nowhere near your experience, so play nice with them. In the afternoon, you'll start classes."

"Classes?" Clint can't keep the panic from his voice. "No way, Coulson. I'm not going to sit in any damn classroom." He backs against the wall, needing support and realizing that he's one step away from running. 

"Why?" Instead of being angry, Coulson is looking at him calmly, with something like concern. 

"The last time I sat in a classroom, I was fifteen years old and the teacher said I was the dumbest fuck in the class. I walked out and swore I wasn't ever going to go through that again."

"He called you a 'dumb fuck'?" Coulson's brows rose. 

Clint blushes. "Not in front of the other kids, no. But later, he ... he called me into his office and said I was a dumb fuck, but at least I was a _pretty_ dumb fuck." The memory brings a hot flush to his cheeks and bile to the back of his throat. 

"What did you do?" Coulson's voice is calm, but there is a knot at the angle of his jaw that Clint doesn't understand. Why would Coulson be angry at him? 

"I shoved him against the desk and ran out. I never went back. I tried school down in Clewiston, but the teacher was more into helping the Cuban workers than a kid with ... me. I got my GED online when I was in the army, but if you're gonna put me in a room with a bunch of Harvard grads, I'm not gonna stay long enough for them to laugh at me." 

Coulson takes a breath. "Okay. Since your primary assignments will be in the field, not desk duty, I'll see about arranging online classes for you. They are required for all agents, and Jasper will test you, so don't dodge the issue, Barton."

Clint feels a vast relief. "No, sir." 

"Then we'd better get over to S.H.I.E.L.D."

"Thank you, sir, for taking me in last night."

"You're welcome." Coulson doesn't say anything about Clint's nightmares costing him sleep, or about how much he didn't want Clint invading his comfortable space. As they drive away in Coulson's corvette, Clint has to keep from looking back, feeling like he's losing home. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
Clint's first day goes pretty much like Coulson said, except for some time Sitwell has carved out on the range. Clint can't wait to get his hands on that bow, but apparently the doctors aren't pleased that he's been standing too much on his knee; so Sitwell gives him a handgun and says he might as well start his certification with something less strenuous. 

Clint doesn't like guns all that much, and he really dislikes small arms, but he drills a smiley face into the head of a target. Sitwell snorts. "Let me guess, _Lethal Weapon_ is your favorite movie."

"Just that scene." Clint repeats the drill, and Sitwell takes the gun from him. "Well, I guess you're -- "

"Certifiable?"

"HaHa." Sitwell really isn't that much of a wuss, Clint decides and grins at him. Sitwell doesn't grin back, but he doesn't look like he's about to shit a brick, either. "C'mon, Barton. The docs say you need to eat."

The Harvard boys are gone, and the agents in the cafeteria look rough and tired. Clint knows that look; he's seen it in the army. He feels more at home here with the foot soldiers. He loads up his plate with spaghetti and meatballs, garlic bread, salad -- because Sitwell won't let him skip the vegetables. Clint's had so many bad meals, and has missed so many meals, that he's not exactly fussy when it comes to food. It's passable, plentiful, and he's hungry. 

While he's stuffing his face, a tall slender woman in a S.H.I.E.L.D. jumpsuit comes over to their table. She's got a plate nearly as full as Clint's and she shoves Jasper over in the booth with her hip. Jasper -- Agent Sitwell -- blushes. 

"Who's the newbie, Jasper?" she asks.

"Agent in training Clint Barton. He's one of Coulson's. Agent Barton, this is S.H.I.E.L.D. AD Maria Hill."

Clint panics. Does he stand, salute, bow? He sticks out his hand, feeling like an idiot. "Ma'am," he manages to get out of his throat, sounding _almost_ normal.

Apparently he's done the right thing. Hill takes his hand and gives it a firm shake. "So, you're Hawkeye?"

Denying it won't do a thing. "Yes, ma'am."

Jasper taps his phone and shows her a picture of the targets with the smiley faces. Hill gives him a slightly feral grin. "Nice. We need shooters." She stops talking and eats, fully committed to her food, but still neat. 

Sitwell doesn't say anything, but his eyes betray him and Clint wonders if Hill has any idea that Jasper worships the ground she walks on, and it's not because she's, technically, his boss. It makes Sitwell human, which makes Clint like the guy. He finishes his spaghetti and salad. 

"Done. What's next?"

"Quarters."

Maria pauses. "Give him good ones, Sitwell."

"I don't need --" Clint starts to argue, but Hill's glare stops him. "Sure. Whatever."

They leave the cafeteria, Sitwell is grumbling about something, it sounds like 'pretty eyes and muscles'. Clint isn't sure if he's talking about Hill or himself and he isn't about to ask. He follows Sitwell obediently. 

Clint doesn't hold out much hope for his assigned quarters. He knows how it works; he's the lowest of the low. If it's as luxurious as a jail cell, he'll be grateful. At least it will have a bed and a door he can lock. It's all he's ever wanted, really. Everything else is icing. 

They stop in front of a door at the end of a corridor. Jasper opens up a panel. "Scan your eye and thumb."

Clint knows the routine. He hears the lock click and Sitwell opens the door. "Home, sweet home." 

Right. Clint steps inside cautiously. The room isn't large, but there's a couch and a chair, a low table, and a simple wooden desk. A flat screen TV faces the couch. The flooring is cork tile that gives slightly under his feet and won't be cold in the night. The walls are a pale gray, almost the shade he'd painted the walls in his Washington apartment. A small galley kitchen has a refrigerator, microwave, a single cup coffee brewer. The counters are stainless steel. Clint looks down a narrow hall. There is a small bedroom, just big enough for a double bed and nightstand. And there is a _window_. Clint looks out over the city. It's not much of a view, but at least it gives his vision some distance. The bathroom is tiny and utilitarian. 

Everything is scaled to the small space, but it doesn't feel cramped. It's all his. "Thanks, Sitwell. I've slept in worse places."

"You will again, trust me. This will look like a palace when you get back from Budapest."

"I'm going to Budapest?"

Sitwell rolls his eyes. "Everybody goes to Budapest at one time or another, and most of us hate it. Ask Agent Coulson." He opens up his briefcase and takes out a thick black binder. "S.H.I.E.L.D. rules, regs, and code of conduct for field agents. Have fun, Barton. Quiz is the day after tomorrow. Check your schedule on the StarkPad Coulson gave you. Tomorrow is range time in the afternoon, followed by medical again, and PT in the afternoon." 

After Sitwell leaves, Clint wanders around. He really doesn't have much to put away. The kitchen is stocked with generic staples, and the knives are crap. He wonders if he can have a hotplate. The refrigerator is nearly empty. The freezer has a number of frozen dinners inside. Clint isn't a gourmet, but he can make the basics; eggs, spaghetti, sandwiches. Maybe he can get Coulson to direct him to the nearest market. He thinks most of the agents must eat in the cafeteria. He doesn't do well in crowds. He'll just have to eat at odd hours when the cafeteria isn't overwhelming. 

His brain is in avoidance mode. He looks at the binder, which seems to have doubled in size since Sitwell gave it to him. He picks it up and flops down on the couch with a grimace. He starts to read. _Tries_ to read. He was smart enough to get his GED, but this ... these words and the language are worse than any military jargon he's had to wade through. This was written for those trainees in suits and ties, not for guys with a scant high-school education who feel more at home with a weapon in their hands and dirt and blood under their fingernails. This place he is supposed to call home is more foreign than Afghanistan. He picks up the StarkTab and turns it on. He taps the books icon, expecting to find more instructional manuals, and is surprised to see a selection of classics and current-day thrillers. He wonders if Coulson had loaded them on the e-reader. 

Coulson said he could download music. Clint figures that out and downloads classic rock, blues and jazz. He looks at his watch. It's after six, and he hopes the dinner rush will be over. He opens his door and is surprised to find that there is no guard stationed outside. He knows there are cameras everywhere, but they're non-threatening, anonymous. He makes his way to the mess where the steam tables are still set up. He chooses macaroni and cheese, Salisbury "steak" in onion gravy, apple sauce, and a big piece of chocolate cream pie. 

"I see you're taking the doctor's orders seriously." Coulson is standing next to him, holding a cup of coffee and a powdered sugar doughnut on a saucer. "Mind if I join you?"

"You're the boss," Clint replies, but he's happier than he should be to see Coulson again. The man exudes calm competence, something Clint has come to respect in a commander. They settle in a booth. Coulson takes out his phone and starts texting. 

"Go ahead, Barton. Eat. This will take a few minutes."

Clint eats while Coulson types, eventually turning on the StarkTab and starting to read one of his old favorites, _The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn_. He concentrates on the well-loved words. 

"You like to read?" Coulson asks as he sets his phone aside.

"I like Twain," Clint says slowly. He knows he's blushing, but he has to talk to somebody. "Sir, I ..." He ducks his head, afraid to meet Coulson's eyes, to see the disappointment there. "Sir, I have a GED! I'm good with math and angles and standard deviation as it applies to targets and ammo ... but those rules and regs? They might as well be written in ... Sir, I have a fair grasp of a lot of languages, but this ..."

"Legalese." Coulson says and there is a hint of laughter in his voice. "I told them that field operatives don't need to know more than three rules."

Clint looks up and sees that Coulson's eyes have the crinkles at the corners; they're warm and gentle. "Three rules?"

"First, protect the innocent. Second, protect your teammates. Third, trust your Agent-in-Charge. They didn't get there by being irrational assholes." 

"I can do three rules, but I don't think they'll let me blow through the test." He sighs, takes a bite of pie. 

Coulson's phone chimes and he looks at the message, replying with a few taps. "Bring the binder to my office in ten minutes."

Clint blinks, surprised. "Yes, sir."

"Finish your pie." Coulson pockets his phone and leaves. Clint eats his pie, grabs two cups of fresh coffee to go, sugar packets and creamers. He makes his way to Coulson's office and pushes the door open. 

Coulson's office is dominated by a huge stainless computer desk, and two high-res monitors. It looks like the Enterprise. It's an odd contrast with the battered file cabinets and the worn leather couch. What is it with Coulson and couches? This one looks as outrageously comfortable as the one in his apartment. There is an afghan thrown over the back, and a pillow tucked away behind it, sure signs that Coulson has spent more than one night in his office. Clint is intrigued. Why would he do that when he has a place in easy distance from the headquarters?

Coulson is peering at something on his monitors and typing away. He holds up a hand to indicate that he wants Clint to wait. Clint sets down the coffee and sinks into the couch. He was right, it is outrageously comfortable. The back of the couch is the perfect height for him to rest his head against. He does, and to his mortification, he wakes up an hour later. Coulson is going through the binder, flagging pages with bright yellow tabs. He turns to Clint. 

"Sleep well?"

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean -- "

"Barton, you're two days out of medical. Cut yourself some slack. It gave me time to mark the important pages. They're less stupor-inducing than the legal sections. The ones I marked deal with procedure in the field, containment, how to use SERE training. You might find that interesting. Also, training protocols. They're all similar to what you already know from being in special forces." He hands the binder to Clint. 

"Th-thank you, sir," Clint stammers. "I should ... you know, get going."

"Goodnight, Barton."

"Sir, aren't you going home tonight?" Clint blurts out, and blushes.

Coulson peers over his glasses. "Eventually. It's only eight o'clock."

It seemed much later to Clint. He can't tell Coulson that he needs rest, that he looks tired. That's not his place. He just raises a hand in a goodnight wave and leaves with his binder, and tablet in hand. Maybe he can get in an hour of reading now that Coulson's been kind enough to winnow down what he has to learn. 

^*^*^*^*^*^  
Following two weeks of intensive physical therapy, range certifications, and oral examinations on practices and procedures, Clint is sworn in as a probationary S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. Coulson and Sitwell take him out to celebrate at a high-priced sushi bar, which Clint doesn't think is standard operating procedure, but he'll take what he can get. He's worked for it. 

After too many rounds of sake and pleasant exhilaration, Clint feels like his head has been stuffed full of cotton wool. He stands up, the world spinning a bit around him. "Whoa ... been a while since I've had this much to drink," he hiccoughs. "Sorry."

Sitwell smirks. "You want me to carry you home, Barton?"

"No. Just get me coffee and I'll be fine."

"You're in a sushi bar. I don't think coffee is on the menu."

Clint blinks at him. "No coffee? That's just cruel." He turns to Coulson. "Isn't that cruel?"

Phil sets down his napkin. "Yes. Undoubtedly. I know a place down the block, however." He looks at Sitwell. "Join us, Jasper?"

"Ooh, no. I don't think so. I value my sleep. And, Barton, a hangover is no excuse for being late."

"Late?"

"Smile. You're going to Budapest. I've got it, sir." Sitwell pulls out his credit card, black with the S.H.I.E.L.D. logo embossed on it. "Cleared by Mar -- AD Hill. Goodnight, sir. Barton -- try to sleep."

Clint tries not to smirk at Coulson. He knows that Sitwell has a _thing_ for Hill.

After Jasper leaves, Clint walks with Coulson to a small coffeehouse where they order and sit in a booth, across from each other. He watches as Phil adds a packet of sugar and a dollop of cream to his cup. He waits for Clint to start talking, patient as always. Clint finds that soothing. 

"So," he asks after a cup of black coffee has chased away the sake fog, "What's the deal with Budapest?"

Coulson looks at him over the rim of his coffee cup. Clint expected his eyes to crinkle with amusement, but they don't. He sets the cup down carefully. "Budapest is one of the prettiest cities I've ever seen. Even when Hungary was a Soviet satellite, it was one place where a westerner could go and not feel like every move was being scrutinized by the KGB, which, of course, it was. It just didn't _feel_ that way."

"And now?"

"Don't let the wedding cake architecture and the pastry shops lull you into complacency. It's the crossroads of too many cultures, too many crime syndicates. Black market weapons, drugs, illegal tech."

"Sounds like a party to me." Clint's voice sounds taut and dangerous, even to himself. Coulson's answering smile is wolfish, his eyes sharp and focused. "Do you send all newbie agents there, or am I getting special treatment?"

Coulson gives nothing away. "Sitwell will brief you in the morning." 

Clint sits back in his chair. Coulson's eyes are dark blue in the dim light. He looks tired. Clint realizes that he knows nothing about what Coulson does, but looking at him, it isn't just sitting behind a desk. He wants to know more, he wishes he had the time, but the barista is looking at the clock, and Clint knows what that's like, too. "Umm, we should go," he says regretfully. 

Phil leaves five dollars on the table, thanks the barista with a polite nod, and they leave. The night has turned chilly. Clint hunches inside his jacket. "Well, I guess this is it for the night." 

Coulson looks up at the sky. The city lights have washed out all the stars. "It's almost time to put Lola away for the winter."

"Man, you love that car."

Coulson smiles. "I won't deny it." The wind comes up and ruffles the light strands of his hair. He keeps it military short, and Clint wants to stroke the close-cut ends at the nape of his neck, an urge he suppresses out of habit. He turns up his hoodie. 

"Goodnight, sir." Clint says quietly and walks towards S.H.I.E.L.D. There is an empty ache in his chest that he calls lonely. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
Budapest turns out to be a FUBAR as only Budapest can be. Sitwell sustains a concussion, Clint discovers his target is a decoy and guilt assails him over a needless death at his hand. When he sees Sitwell go down hard, Clint decides to call the op, because Hill will kill him anyway if he brings Sitwell home damaged beyond repair. As he drags Jasper away from the smoking rubble of the factory S.H.I.E.L.D. had ordered the team to destroy, a lucky shot catches him in the shoulder -- it's not a bad wound, or deep, but he's cold, wet and bleeding when they reach the extraction point. He tells the medics to take care of Jasper first, and only after he's sure the senior agent is awake and aware, does he let them treat his wound. By the time they landing in New York, he's exhausted. Sitwell, looking faintly green, tells him to report to Coulson and promptly passes out.

He goes to Phil's office. Coulson isn't there. His uniform is damp at the seams, he's still cold, still bleeding. He can't sit on Phil's couch like this. He slumps down in the extra chair. It wobbles, since one leg is fractionally shorter than the others. The cushion is lumpy, and the back is so upright that it's like having a board shoved against your spine. Clint's been on that chair, opposite Coulson, the senior agent's gimlet gaze fixed on him. It's not a comfortable place to be. Despite that, Clint feels things getting fuzzy around the edges. He leans forward and puts his head down on Phil's desk. 

_Barton ... Barton ... Wake up._ It's the voice, the aroma of coffee, the cautious, gentle hand on his shoulder. Clint raises his head and blinks up at Coulson.

"Sir?" 

"Coffee?"

Clint wraps shaking fingers around the cup. He notices for the first time that his fingernails are edged with the dark brown of old blood. He wants to hide them, but he can't let go of that warm mug of caffeinated heaven. He takes a few swallows and wonders how Coulson knows the exact comforting temperature and taste; hot, but not scalding, the acidity tempered by a hint of sweetness. Clint wants to cry it's so perfect. So, _Phil_. "Thank you, sir," he breathes.

"Barton, you're bleeding," Phil says gently. 

"Nah, it's old. I'm fine."

"No. You're definitely bleeding. You should be in medical."

"Sitwell ... Agent Sitwell, told me to come here to report."

"Agent Sitwell has had his brains scrambled, according to AD Hill." 

"Really, sir. It's nothing."

Phil sighs. "Take off your tac vest and shirt."

"Sir, I didn't know you cared." This isn't how he imagined getting naked in front of his obsession would be. Reluctantly, he sets down the coffee and slowly takes off his vest, trying not to jar the wound. He manfully suppresses a yelp of pain when Coulson soaks off the old bandage and cleans it with a disinfectant spray before applying a new dressing from a first aid kit that appeared from nowhere. 

"Come along, Barton. We'll debrief tomorrow."

"I could sleep here," Clint looks longingly at the couch. "I'll be quiet."

"Stop being a five year old. I'll walk you to your quarters."

Clint sighs, wondering if he has enough energy to make it that far. "Yes, sir."

Coulson isn't in a hurry. They stroll slowly through the nearly deserted hallways. His shoulder brushes against Clint's, and when a heavy door starts swinging closed, he catches it with his hand to keep it from hitting Clint's shoulder. He sets a warm palm against Clint's back to steady him, and Clint wants nothing more than to lean into that surprising strength. Too soon they reach his quarters. He presses his thumb to the pad and it opens inward. 

"Thank you, sir," Clint says politely. To his surprise, Coulson comes inside. 

"When was the last time you ate? If you have to think about it, it's been too long." He muscles Clint over to the couch. "Sit down, Barton." 

He goes into the kitchen. There is a rattling of dishes, the hum of the microwave. Two minutes later, Coulson reappears with a mug of steaming soup."Start with this," Coulson orders in his no-nonsense agent voice. 

Clint knows better than to argue. It's just canned soup, but it's hot and salty and it doesn't taste bad. Clint sighs happily. "You didn't have to do this," he says. 

"You would have thrown yourself on the sofa, bleeding, hungry and cold. You can't function like that, and I need you to be upright and functioning at some level of competence tomorrow."

"Here I thought you were worried about me," Clint's voice, which he meant to sound teasing, sounds bitter instead, because so few people in his life have cared if he is hungry, tired and cold. 

Coulson sighs. "I do worry about you. I worry about Sitwell and every agent in my care. But mostly about you, Barton. You really have a very poorly developed sense of self-preservation."

Oh. _That._. Well, that's been kind of beaten out of him most of his life. He'll dodge a bullet with the best of them when it's only his life on the line, but when it's somebody else ... somebody more valuable ... he'll throw himself on a grenade for them. He doesn't say anything of this to Coulson.

"You don't have to throw yourself on a grenade," Coulson says, and it's like he's been reading Clint's mind. "You're more valuable than that." 

Clint, to his horror, has to look away and blink to clear his eyes. He must be more tired than he realizes. "Thanks for the soup, sir." He clears his throat. "I'm going to clean up and go to bed ... just like you ordered."

"See that you do, Barton. I'm not a babysitter, I'm not going to tuck you in."

"You wound me, sir." Clint's voice is more steady, with the ironic twist back to it. He thinks he sees Coulson's lips twitch as the lines deepen around the corners of his eyes. 

He can't help following Coulson as he stands, tugs at the hem of his suit coat, smooths his tie -- all reflexive, Clint knows, like his hands know to nock an arrow even with his eyes closed. Coulson walks over to the door and turns. "Welcome back, Barton."

"Thank you, sir. How often do I have to go to Budapest?"

"Get some rest, Barton. We'll talk about Budapest tomorrow."

Clint takes that as a 'more often than you'd like' answer. So, not just some sort of trial they use as a baptism of fire for new agents. "Great."

"Next time, I'll hold your hand."

"People will talk, sir."

"Don't let it worry you." He is definitely smiling now. "Goodnight, Barton."

"Yes, sir." The door slides shut with a faint hiss and Clint forces himself off the couch and into the shower. When the hot water starts running cool, he towels off and wraps himself in his worn terry cloth robe. He turns the TV on to a mere whisper, and with the light flickering over his eyelids, he falls asleep. 

**TBC**


End file.
